Melrose Avenue, New york
by unstealth
Summary: Melrose is a normal New yorker. A 14yearold with no clue where she's going to go to college, what classes she'll take next semester, or what she'll eat for lunch. Her only trouble is her mother died as a child, and now all she sees is visions of her.


COFFE SHOPS AND PEOPLE

Cities are amazing places. There can be a hobo sitting in his brown box on a street corner, and next to him is Saks Fifth Avenue store. New york City is a wild place. Wilder than most places I've been to, actually, but I doubt California is a real comparison to NyC. Crowds in colorful jackets brush past me just as I decide to sit down on a bench. People-watching can be more entertaining than anything else the world has to offer. A woman in a black wool knee-length jacket walks rapidly across the street. She's holding a Starbucks coffee cup in one hand and a BlackBerry in the other. I guess her name is Margaret and she's on her way to work someplace, most probably a huge, lifeless office building. I decide this because Starbucks is for people who don't have time to spare and much less to find a better coffee shop. If they just took a second to look down the street they'd find ten better ones in just five minutes, but then again, they have no time. Life is useless for those kinds of people, that's why I have vowed to never have a complex life. Well, it wasn't really a vow, it just happened that way. It just happened to be that I'm the kind of person that has time to find a hundred better coffee shops (or any kind of shop for that matter) because I have no social life. My name is Melrose S. Williams. The reason I have no social life might be that I don't like Britney Spears or maybe because last year I organized a protest against animal testing at school which only two people attended. One of them being me. The other was a chaperone the school had sent. The Principal felt pity for me, I suppose, so he decided not to give me a detention for skipping class. So that you don't have the wrong idea about me, I'm not one of those ecologists that have shaved their hair off in order to help make wigs for kids with Cancer. Actually, I quite like my hair. It's a brown full hair of head with a short, kind of spiky hairdo. I cut it myself, just not for Cancer kids. The remains were too little to donate, not that I was thinking of that at the time or anything. I walk into a place called Melano's Coffee Shop. A little dinging bell accompanies my entrance. I decide to come here because it's small and the menu in front of the shop has nice options. A petite girl in jeans and an apron comes to my table with a paper pad and asks me if I'd like to order something or wait a bit. I tell her that I'd like a cappuccino with extra cream. She smiles and rushes off. The place is a small little shop with really comfortable cushioned seats and dark, wooden tables. The walls are plastered with sayings like, "Have a great day!" and "We hope your coffee is as warm as your heart!". Soon, my cappuccino arrives. It's toppled with cream and a little mound of whipped cream on top. I tear open a white packet of sugar and pour it in my coffee, then I take my spoon and slowly stir it. I love stirring coffee because it looks like a small tornado that I could hold back with my bare hands. As I sip my coffee, the best feeling in the world overcomes me. The coffee is delicious. See, if people would take the time to find these kinds of shops they wouldn't be as cold-hearted. I walk home with a sense of success and achievement that doesn't usually come across me. I hum some 80's songs as I skip along the sidewalk, kicking pebbles that come in touch with my Chucks Converse.

THE LACy INCIDENT

Home isn't really a stable place for me. I like to get out as often as possible so that I don't have to be "home". The only thing I like about home is my ferret, Weffet. When I first learned about ferrets I couldn't pronounce the word "Ferret", so I called them Weffets. I mean, I was five years old. The only person I knew that could pronounce it apart from Mom and Papa was my friend Lacy. Lacy was this girl with bushy brown hair that cascaded down her chubby face. She was like a tiny soccer ball when she was little--an awkward little ball that toppled around with legs and arms. We used to be together all the time. My mother didn't own a car, so Lacy's mom would drive me home from school every day. She'd leave us at my house while she ran errands. All day we would watch Disney movies and try to imitate Tigger's bouncy song from Winnie The Pooh. Sometimes we would go up to my room and make tents with my sheets. Once we covered my room in pale pink sheets and gathered all our favorite things inside. We put the book "Boodle" inside and red Twizzlers and the ballerina statuette that we both loved. All day we stayed in there telling stories. "Did you know that Paltipussies are like humans, but they lay eggs? Mommy says it might be easier that way." Lacy said as we wound up the ballerina statuette. "Really? Then, when I grow up I'm gonna have a Paltipussy as a pet!" I'd say. I haven't seen Lacy since I was about six. There was this huge misunderstanding between our families. It was like they both collided with each other for some stupid mistake. It happened when Lacy got an asthma attack at my house. I was the one who called the ambulance, and when Lacy's parents finally arrived they blamed it all on my mother who had really been absent when Lacy got the attack. They said something about our family being dysfunctional and then, as our mothers fought on the front lawn I remember creeping off with Lacy into the garden's tool shed. All we could here were the shouts of our parents insulting each other. Lacy's mom called mother an American prostitute and mother called Lacy's a Mexican intruder. We cried together for the half hour that the fight went on, until finally our parents realized that we were missing. Lacy's mom blamed our escape on my mother. Finally, when they found us in the shed they were too enraged to say a thing. Lacy's mother yanked her arm and dragged her like a rubber band to the car. Lacy wailed in the distance as her mother screamed, "Lacy Rodriguez, you will never ever come back to this house again". Lacy stuck her hands to the glass of the car window and waved goodbye to me as the red Volkswagen rolled away. My face was as red as the Twizzlers I used to share with Lacy. I stared at the blank street where Lacy and I used to play hopscotch. "Mommy, what's a porsktitoot?" I asked as a tear slipped out of my eye and traveled down my hot cheeks.

MOTHER AND SIMONe

When I was small I remember my mother as the most beautiful person I'd ever seen. I had inherited her dark brown hair and blue eyes, but for some reason I didn't seem to look as amazing as she did. Mother used to pose for magazines and appear on TV commercials. She bought me the most beautiful dresses and when we were in the dressing rooms trying them on she would tell me to twirl. "If the dress is just right" she'd say "you'll feel it when you twirl". I loved to twirl with her. She would lift me up in her arms when we were done twirling, look me in the eye as if it were a matter of life or death and say "Was it a perfect twirl?". Another thing I loved about mother was her ability to convince people. Once, the neighborhood's ice-cream man called Larry came over to propose marriage to mother. He kneeled on our front doorstep and wobbled over, trying to lift the lid of a small black box. I had been preparing cookies with her in the kitchen. As I waited I ate the cookie dough, hoping she would decline his offer. Mother was too proper to tell him to take a hike, but I just wished she would say no. When she came back into the kitchen she seemed to dance in, and as if it were the most unimportant matter in the world she said "I convinced him he was too good for me". I smiled and ran over to hug her light summer dress and inhale her smell. Mother's smell was the loveliest thing. She smelled like a field of flowers with a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies in the center. Sometimes when she was out being photographed I used to crawl into her bed and smell her pillow. I did that the most when mother wasn't here. It happened the most terrible day of my life. Mother and I were dancing to the radio's songs in the foyer when suddenly she got a phone call. All she said was "Honey I've got to run, I'll be back sooner than the next song finishes. In the meantime just stay put". We exchanged three kisses on each cheek and then she ran off. Three hours later a big man in a black suit kicked the door open. "Melrose S. Williams?" the man asked. I nodded and for no reason at all rolled into a little ball in the corner of the room. I had a hunch tat something was wrong. The man escorted me out of the house and into a black Cadillac. I was taken to an office where a woman stood in a long, flowy pink skirt and a light blue sweater. She was small and she held a vintage white purse in one of her hands. Her creamy brown hair was let down and in her other hand was a crumpled tissue that, I assumed, had wiped the tears from her pale face. "What happened?" I asked the big man in a black suit. The woman that had been standing there came over and hugged me. "Honey, I'm so sorry... June-- your mother, she's.. she's dead". All over again, the woman started sobbing, wiping the black streams of mascara with the tissue. I just looked at her. These people were crazy. I started laughing. "That's not true!", I said giggling. I had just seen her a few hours ago. She couldn't be _dead. _These people were nuts! The woman's cry just got louder and louder. Suddenly, I halted. I realized it was true, and these people weren't crazy.

After mother's death Simone cared for me. She was the woman that had worn the flowy skirt and the sweater the day of mother's death. I had seen Simone before mother's death, but only a few times. She would be the first to arrive to mom's parties and the last to leave. According to mother's will she was the one to take care of me. She was my aunt. Well, technically she was. She had been mom's best friend, and since mother was an only child, and her parent's had passed away long ago there was no one else to take care of me but Simone. Simone is a jubilant, but sarcastic little lady who loves to cook. All I know was that she's an artist and designer. Sometimes I go to the fittings for Teen Vogue, and when the clothes aren't used in the shoots she passes them on to me acting all frustrated because they didn't use them in the photo shoot. At times the clothes are nice, other times they range from Peacock feather boas to clown shoes. She doesn't get home until six or seven at night, but she always cooks and checks I have my homework done. Home is lonely, but manageable. After school I just walk around Fifth Avenue or hang out at Lefty's.

LEFTy s RECORD STORE

Lefty's Record Store is where I normally go after school. Karma, the manager, usually lets me drink apple fizz and bring Weffet inside, though he's not supposed to. I love Lefty's because they have all kinds of music. They sell classics like Oasis, Garbage, and The Beatles, but they also bring in new stuff like Fallout Boy and Colbie Caillat. Karma always chats with me. Karma's a big man with a clean, shaved head. He always wears a bandana and a leather vest. Karma gives me discounts and lets me bring my own CDs and listen to them with the stereo they purchased a few years ago. He also lets me go to the back of the store and help him sort out records that I think people might be interested in. Karma is pretty much my best friend. I've known him for six years. I met him when I was eight, one year after mother's death. Simone took me shopping on the anniversary of mother's death as a consolation prize. I had been curled up in a little ball crying all morning, when she told me that we'd go shopping wherever I wanted. There was a catch, though. If she saw me crying one more time we would return home. She took me to all these fancy places and asked me if I wanted to try on some dresses. I hated them all. I told her I wanted to pick out the next store we went to. As we ate some ice cream cones from Baskin Robins, I pointed out the tattered, black shop that read "Lefty's Record Store". The poster on the shop's display said they were selling the Jackson 5 Best Hits CD. I was thrilled, since my mother and I had always loved to listen to Rockin' Robin and ABC. I pulled Simone into the store and there was Karma, sitting at the front desk with a big smile. "Hello, sir" I said "Do you, perhaps, still have one of the Jackson 5 CDs with the song Rockin' Robin on it?". Karma gladly led us towards the section that had "Oldies" marked on top. "Sure, little miss. Here you go" Karma handed me the disc and I asked Simone if we could buy it. "Well, I suppose we could. If that's what you really want, but there are plenty more dresses out there and--" I interrupted her "Thanks so much Simone! Thank your mister!" I said and curtsied for Karma. I twirled all over the store delightedly. Once we got home I played the CD over and over and over again. It was one of the best times I'd had since mother's death.

Useless Theories

Simone and I never discussed what happened to my mother. She always seemed too sad to handle it and I never listened when anyone brought up the topic. All I expected was an "I'm so sorry for your loss" so I'd just provide a nice and polite "Thank you" like I had been taught to. As I brush my teeth I can't help but wonder what answer I'd get if I ask Simone. So, as I pull a T-Shirt over my head and zip up my jeans I decide to do exactly that. I mean, how bad can it be? I skip down the stairs, jumping over two at a time. As I'm almost entering the kitchen I shout "Hey Simone, what exactly happened to my mom?". Just as I enter the kitchen I discover Simone is no longer home, so I decide to go back to bed. I find my robe and slippers and cover my whole body with my quilt. I lie in my bed for about eight minutes, until I decide that I'm bored. I get up and walk towards my old wooden desk, cramped in between my trash bin and small collage of old pictures. I search for a piece of paper to write on, but they're all used up, so I decide to use the back of an old history test. I pull out a pink, fuzzy pen and start on writing a useless list:

Theories about mom's death

She was the victim of a car accident

Someone accidentally killed her while aiming at another person

I can't continue. The list brings a tear to my eye which I wipe off nonchalantly as if it were the slightest drop of sweat. I crumble the list up and go back to bed. I cover my head with the quilt and cry until I hear the front door's lock turn several hours later. All that lying in bed has made me realized that all I really want to do is find out what happened to mother. So, when I hear the door unlock I run down the stairs as fast as my legs let me. "Simone, Simone, Simone!" I repeat several times skipping down the steps two at a time. "Hey Simone, what happened to Mother?" Simone looked tired, and as soon as I asked screamed out my question, she was paralyzed. She stood there as pail as if I had dropped a bag of white flour on her face. "Well, how was your morning?". She was trying to change the subject. This definitely was not what I was aiming for. "Simone, please answer my question" was all I pleaded. I wanted to know something and there was no stopping me. "Well... they hadn't exactly found her body, but they had traces that led to the conclusion. They really couldn't run a further investigation. I'm--I'm so sorry, Mel.. I just, I thought.. I thought they were right, and they are right. I wish we could've done more to verify--" I cut her off. "So, you don't exactly know what happened?" I ask. "Well, none of the officers did. They just said she.. she was.. you know... was dead". Simone was cut off in tears. I hugged her in sympathy. I had learned to deal with my sadness another way. I don't mean cutting myself or anything like that. I just liked to doodle. Most of my doodling is done in class, which isn't very fortunate, but hey, inspiration only comes knocking at your door once in a while.

WHaT iF

What if we all started a chain of consciousness? All we'd have to do is be conscious about everyone else's actions. Even if it's a stranger. If we see someone doing drugs on the sidewalk, you could walk over and try to stop them. Surely, they might get angered because they don't know what they're doing to their life. It doesn't even have to be anything that big. Even if you listen to some kid bullying another, all you have to do is interfere. Be conscious. Anyone _could_ do anything if they wanted to. We_ could,_ but we think we can't. People all want to let their hair loose and be themselves, but we're afraid of what others might think, even though deep down in their very own interior they want to do the same. That's how chains of self-consciousness form themselves. We could all let loose, but we don't. Life is complicated that way. For example, today, as I was staring at one of the computers in the library, I moved my head and stretched my arms. I looked out the window and I was almost certain I'd seen my mom. I almost shouted out "Oh my God! It's my mother!" but then I remembered three things:

1) My mother isn't here anymore.

2) If I shouted out like that in the library I'd get kicked out.

2) They would probably think I was a maniac or escaping from the loony bin or something.

my Bad Eyesight

Okay, I'm having more strange sightings of what I think is my mother. I'm considering telling Simone, but I'm not entirely sure of what her reaction would be. She'd probably cry. More than she has already (which I find rather impossible, since she's probably used up all the water in her system by crying). I mean, she's a very very sentimental person. I don't know how my mother could handle her. Sometimes I don't know how I handle her myself. Sometimes I think I'm taking care of her instead of it being the other way around, but usually she's a pretty decent guardian. Finally, I've decided to sit at my computer and find out whether my version of the Wonderwall lyrics is correct. I'm entering my search in Google as suddenly I catch a glimpse of a brown-haired woman in black trousers and a long, white leather jacket. She has green eyes. I'm startled. She looks exactly like mother. I jump out of the wooden chair I'm in and poke my nose against the window. She's walking away. "SIMONE! IT'S MOTHER!" I shout. Damn. I probably shouldn't have done that. Now Simone is rushing all over the apartment screaming "What? Where? Are you okay?". She rushes over to my room as fast as her Chanel boots will let her (they were probably a hand-me-down from the Vogue shoots). I point at the street, which is empty by now. "She.. She was there Simone. I swear, I saw her there. She was walking. And--and she had a white jacket and black pants, and she looked like Mom, I--I promise! She looked exactly like Mom! We've GOT to find her!" I follow the trail of fingerprints on the window, searching for the woman I think is mother. "Honey, I know it was an impacting experience, but she's really not here anymore. I think we've got to accept that now. It's hard, it really is, but I'm sure if we try really hard we'll be able to survive without her. We'll--" Ugh. Here we go again. "Simone, it's real! I'm not pretending! I saw her!" I point at the window. "I'm sure you think you did, sweetie, but Mother is not here anymore. I'm really sorry". Simone comes over to me and wraps her arms around my back. I take a step backward. "I really saw her there..." I shove Simone out of my room before she has anything else to say. Downstairs I hear her dialing numbers on her mobile. I catch her saying something about "Help" and "Comfort"... Maybe she won't go to work as much now that she thinks I'm loony. Maybe she's decided to give me more things for Christmas because she's just realized that she has been neglecting me far too long. That would be a nice little surprise. Maybe she's...

FAULty DECISIONS

She's taking me to a shrink. A shrink, for God's sake! One of those old lady's expecting me to grab a tissue from their fluffy pink boxes and play dollhouse with them while confessing my utmost deep secrets. Why did I have to try to convince her about Mother? Why couldn't I keep my big mouth shut? Big? Wait, let me rephrase that. Why couldn't I keep my immensely stupid mouth sealed? I mean, a shrink! Who goes to a _shrink_? I'm screwed. Now I'm not just going to be the weird girl when we get back to school after summer, but also the girl who goes to a shrink after class.


End file.
